


Here

by Petronia



Series: The Here Trilogy [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, But Will deserves to feel good occasionally, French cuisine, Hannibal is a disaster ocean, M/M, Massage, Naked Cuddling, Patroclus' unblemished thighs et cetera, Post-Season/Series 03, Seduction, mentions of cannibalism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-01
Updated: 2015-12-01
Packaged: 2018-05-04 07:28:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5325767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Petronia/pseuds/Petronia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal wanted to cook again. He wanted to ply Will with more than hot drinks and canned vegetables and fish. He wanted to make fine dishes, kingly extravagances from Carême or Escoffier, and watch the involuntary pleasure in Will’s face and body as he ate. He wanted, too, to take Will’s hands between his, and sometimes he did, but it was not enough -- he wanted to be able to <em>sate</em> Will, to fill him a little too much, to match the way Hannibal felt when he looked at him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Here

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote [a meta post](http://genufa.tumblr.com/post/132759490765/i-do-think-will-was-heavily-in-denial-about-his) about Will not knowing how to ask for or respond to being touched, that people seemed to find sad. So this is a fix-it of sorts.

 

When Hannibal had been in the BSHCI, Alana had allowed him to select his menu. Sometimes, as a special treat, he had been allowed to cook, during off-hours in the industrial kitchens, hobbled and watched over by guards with tasers. Those privileges had been rescinded with all the others.

He did not think he would allow others to cook for him again for a long time.

He’d stocked the galley of their yacht as well as he could. Wine was not an efficient choice: it took up space and spoiled quickly. Will, he knew, drank whiskey in his alone time, though when they were together he had always drunk whatever Hannibal offered him, without critique or complaint.

By necessity they spent a lot of time working in the open sea air, hauling on ropes and sailcloth. Will more than Hannibal, by necessity as well, though Hannibal was content to follow his instruction. The Atlantic passed in grey and bright days, worn with wind and cold and damp. Hannibal made up the drinks he’d learnt from stays in tax-ridden ancestral piles -- mostly not his -- that clunking generators could not fully heat: _Béné-et-hot, Chartreuse chocolat, Scotch toddy._ Will came belowdeck and took the mugs without asking what was in them, as long as it was evident the liquid was hot and alcoholic. He wrapped his hands around them and ducked his head, curving into the warmth of the steam.

He never said thank you. Hannibal did not think he ever had, since they had become friends.

 

*

 

Quarters on the yacht were close. Hannibal had never been in such proximity to Will, though they had passed both days and evenings with each other. There had been a span of weeks, years ago, when they’d drifted into spending nearly every free moment together: cooking dinner, eating dinner, snifters of brandy and conversation before the fire, Will staying over in the guest bedroom on the excuse of too many glasses of wine, too late an hour, blowing snow on the road… the mornings after had carried the scent of good coffee and Will’s hair clean and damp from the shower. It had felt ineluctable to Hannibal, like a gravitational pull, and so he had assumed it would last. He’d been wrong -- it had ended -- but by then his days had become mere interludes of planning and preparation before he could see Will again.

He’d never watched Will shower, but now it was difficult to avoid.

He knew from undressing and dressing Will what he looked like under his clothes. But there was now motion, habit: the way Will propped his foot up on the toilet seat in order to towel himself dry. It was a gesture Hannibal would never have made. Had Will done that always? Did he learn it from his little wife? Will was a thousand tiny, meaningless puzzles, each one a spun-sugar strand of thought to follow and file.

Hannibal wanted to cook again. He wanted to ply Will with more than hot drinks and canned vegetables and fish. He wanted to make fine dishes, kingly extravagances from Carême or Escoffier, and watch the involuntary pleasure in Will’s face and body as he ate. He wanted, too, to take Will’s hands between his, and sometimes he did, but it was not enough -- he wanted to be able to _sate_ Will, to fill him a little too much, to match the way Hannibal felt when he looked at him. He wanted a fireplace, and to build the fire up high in defiance of regulations, so Will would be over-warm and heady with drink by the end of the evening. Would he remove his jacket and lie before the hearth, if Hannibal put down inviting fur rugs and throws and cushions? Would he doze like that, flushed and loose-limbed and trusting, where Hannibal could touch him? Loosen your collar, Will. Kick off your shoes. You don’t need them.

This is your home, now. Here, just as I imagine you. There is nowhere else for you to go.

 

*

 

They slept in the same bed, though they did not keep the same hours. Will dreamt and woke; Hannibal slept sometimes, and kept vigil otherwise. In the mornings, after breakfast, he helped Will with physiotherapy on his shoulders.

It was an ambiguous intimacy. The exercises hurt, necessarily. Hannibal kept his touch clinically helpful, but Will _saw_ him, and seemed to be amused by what he saw, even as he gasped and cursed his way through the stretches. It made Hannibal want to do more. He dug his thumbs into Will’s trapezius, and Will melted into it without complaint, sighing.

Will never asked to be touched, verbally or with his body. He had never refused Hannibal’s touch, either, even when he’d recoiled from him in anger. He accepted what he was given the way he took the glasses of wine or toddy, with hardly any acknowledgement. Hannibal had learnt early on, though, that he could use his hands to soothe Will: to keep Will’s mind anchored to the moment and steady his heartbeat, as if via surgical intervention. He’d used the tactic sparingly. It had seemed to him -- superstitiously, he realized later -- that success might depend on Will being unaware, and too many iterations would break the spell.

Now he wanted to squander the power in potlatch: a _part maudite_ to burn off. He ran his hands down Will’s arms and up again, feeling goosebumps and feathery hair rise on his skin. There were freckles scattered over Will’s shoulders and forearms, though Hannibal did not think they’d seen much sun. It was another minor mystery.

Will swayed forward in his seat on the edge of the bed. Hannibal’s grip tightened, slightly, before he was conscious of it, and it arrested Will’s motion.

“I have to go set course,” Will murmured, but his body was relaxing again, as if rather than extricate itself it expected to be pulled back, into Hannibal’s arms. It was enchanting. Hannibal, compelled, leant closer, breathing in the warmth that rose from the exposed curve of Will’s nape. No aftershave at all, terrible or otherwise. No fever.

No fear.

“You’re growing thinner,” he said. The words felt like nonsense in his mouth.

Will made a breathy sound that wasn’t quite a laugh. “I’m getting a lot of exercise.”

“I’ll have to be creative,” Hannibal said, “to stimulate your appetite.”

 

*

 

It was a pity they could not have taken the Dragon’s heart. There was honour in the gesture, and as fortifying meals went they would not find a better. The muscle would have been strong, hot with blood and flavour, needing only a sharp knife and a quick sear. It might have been done before the police arrived.

He said as much to Will while parlaying canned beans, bacon, and the last of the _canard confit sous vide_ into the pale shade of a memory of a _cassoulet de Castelnaudary._ Will ran a finger around the edge of his mug and said, not looking at him,

“What if you had more time? What would you have made?”

“A civet,” Hannibal said, “with _sauce grand veneur._ A very old recipe.”

“Huntsman’s stew,” Will said.

“The marinade is comprised of red wine and aromatics,” said Hannibal. He called up, in his mind, the herbs hung around the stations of his kitchen in Florence; the Baltimore kitchen had become useless for quotidian memory. “Shallots -- parsley, thyme, and rosemary -- a bay leaf -- whole black pepper -- an onion stuck with cloves, coarse salt, and new _eau de vie._ The meat would rest in the liquid a day or more. Then it would be browned, with onions and bacon, and reduced in the marinade, thickened with roux and redcurrant jelly, until tender.”

“Would you take it from the thigh?” said Will, and they were back on the cliff: unharmed, pristine observers. Dolarhyde lay dead, all of him a broad, black smear -- leather and spilled blood steaming in the cold air. Only his face and hands were very white, like broken reflections of the moon at their feet. “Or would--” a twist of Will’s mouth-- “ _backstrap_ be preferable?”

“Both can be used,” said Hannibal, “and both should be marinated, although backstrap would not need to be stewed.” He half-knelt, drawing two fingertips through the tar-like pool. It had thickened, but was still warm. “I would also reserve the liver, and some of the blood. A splash of red wine vinegar prevents it from congealing. By tradition since medieval times, civet is finished by _liaison au sang:_ the liver, minced in the blood of the animal, both added as the stew is pulled from the heat.”

He held his hand out to Will.

“It cooks, but just barely.”

Will’s gaze rested on the black blood. The tip of his tongue flicked across his lower lip, and it was as if some neglected line, suddenly, pulled taut: the hook caught in Hannibal’s diaphragm.

“I can’t imagine the taste,” said Will, almost apologetic. “Not... don’t take that as a challenge.”

“I won’t,” Hannibal said. “The next hunt will choose you. I have only to wait.”

 

*

 

Will ate a gratifying portion of the faux cassoulet. In lieu of wine they drank brandy.

“You should probably ration this,” Will said, watching the amber liquid tilt in his glass with the movement of the boat. He was barely drunk: the amount it took to affect him at all was alarming.

“There will be more.”

“Not before Gibraltar.”

“There will be more,” Hannibal said. He reached out and clasped Will’s shoulder. “You’re still tense.”

“You’ve abandoned caution, Dr. Lecter,” Will said, softly. “Do you realize?”

“Would caution serve me?” said Hannibal.

Will looked at him. His eyes were dark, shining in the lamplight: a protean grey like that of the Atlantic. Hannibal was suddenly aware again of the roll and sway of their vessel; of the ludicrous dimensions of the space in which they were enclosed -- a bubble, a rice husk. How alone he and Will were, cast away from teeming humanity with no proxies left, no games to play but with each other. It was as if they’d been locked in the BSHCI together, and no visitors were allowed. As if the sea had taken them when they’d fallen.

_For the moment they are safe from us,_ came the thought. _Just as Will wanted._

“I suppose not,” Will said. He drained his glass in one long swallow and stood. “All right, then. Help me relax.”

 

*

 

Will stripped to t-shirt and boxers, carelessly, the way he did when preparing to go to sleep. He threw back the covers of their shared bed, sat down on his side, then hesitated.

“Where do you--” he said, then swallowed and trailed off.

“Let me,” said Hannibal. He sat close and laid his hand flat against the centre of Will’s chest, above the breastbone. Will’s skin was warm, under the thin fabric, and the thrum of his heart made Hannibal want to close his eyes. Instead he pressed, gently, and Will went as directed, letting himself fall supine. He kept his gaze on Hannibal’s face, as if uncertain of what he saw there.

Hannibal lifted Will’s feet into his lap, and pulled off his socks. He ran his hands over them, caught by an old, neglected memory: tending to Will’s feet, daubing them with fresh mud and bits of leaf and bark, as Will’s dogs shuffled and whined uneasily around the foot of the bed. The way Will had jerked and muttered, even in his drugged sleep, while Hannibal scored his soles with a twig for the sake of verisimilitude.

Then, too, he had thought Will’s feet unusually beautiful, with their high arches and ankles as finely formed as a colt’s. Pierced through and bleeding, they might have modelled for Christ’s feet in a Pieta. He applied pressure, experimentally, and Will’s breath hitched.

“Oh,” he said. “No, don’t--”

“Does that feel good?” Hannibal said, and did it again. Will made a hapless sound that was half a giggle: he pressed his hand against his mouth, abruptly, and turned his face away.

“God,” he said, “I should at least go shower. I can smell them from up here.”

“I prefer you like this,” Hannibal said. There were no descriptive words for what he meant, even uncivil ones, in any of the languages he spoke. A crude approximation would have been that they had been enclosed together for so long, now, that Will smelled of both himself and of Hannibal, mingled; and this satisfied a want in Hannibal that he knew was not civilized -- not human at all.

Will shook his head, but made no further protest. Hannibal set to work, pressing and massaging to loosen the tendons and bones, until Will’s breathing slowed and he grew entirely limp under Hannibal’s touch, the resistance drained away like water. His lips were parted -- but not slack with sleep or unconsciousness, no, not that. Hannibal ran his hands up Will’s calves, and a fine tremor of pleasure seemed to pass through Will’s body into his arms, as if they were only extensions of each other.

“Turn,” he said, and Will let himself be turned, hands loose at his sides. His shirt was rucked up a little, baring the dip of his spine above the elastic of his boxers. Hannibal pulled at it, and Will lifted his arms obligingly, allowing it to be tugged over his head and tossed away.

The cabin was over-warm, now, so he took his own sweater and shirt off. He knelt over Will, not quite draped over him, but close enough that he could feel the radiant heat of Will’s bare torso all along his own. Breathed Will in and ran his hands up Will’s back, pressing down with the heels of his palms. Then down again, more gently. Further down.

Will shuddered, and his hips jerked against the sheets. He didn’t tense or speak, so Hannibal did it again. Then again, and again, until Will’s nape grew flushed and the scent of his arousal was unmistakable, cutting through that of salt water and brandy and warm, unwashed skin.

“Hannibal,” Will said. The syllables half-slurred and rounded in his mouth.

“Shh,” Hannibal said, “it’s all right,” and slid his hand under the waistband of Will’s boxers -- the cotton was hot and damp -- under the weight of Will’s body and between his legs. At the same time he took hold of the back of Will’s neck and pressed: only a little, just enough to make Will understand that he was being held in place.

Will cried out. His hands clenched convulsively in the sheets. He was very hard, velvety-hot and so lovely to touch, and he didn’t struggle or try to free himself; he bore down and thrust into Hannibal’s palm -- once, twice, then with continued insistence. Hannibal circled his fingers and gripped him tightly. Will made another sound, almost a hurt noise, and tried and failed to hitch up on his knees.

“Stay,” Hannibal said. His own voice sounded rough to his ears. “Just like that -- good -- take what you want.” He began to move his hand, and Will moved with him, chasing the friction with increasing urgency. It must have chafed, but Will did not seem to care.

“Oh,” he said, “oh--” and then he was shuddering and coming in hot, wet spurts, still thrusting and making a mess in Hannibal’s hand and in his boxers. The acrid-sweet scent of it filled the air.

Hannibal milked him thoroughly, until there was nothing left to give, and Will was boneless and trembling with the aftershocks of orgasm. Then he pulled the ruined underwear down past Will’s knees, exposing him. He freed himself and slicked up with Will’s come, thinking of nothing at all: only wanting, wanting.

Will made a breathy sob when he felt Hannibal press close against him; his cock coming to rest snugly against the curve of Will’s buttocks. Hannibal slid an arm around his waist, pulling them both onto their sides. He buried his face in the crook of Will’s neck, kissing Will there -- tasting him -- and found the space between Will’s thighs where he could thrust in. It was tight and filthy with sweat and spilled semen and it _fit,_ the way Will’s body fit against his own and Will’s thoughts around his, as if he were made only for Hannibal. And Hannibal was made for Will, he’d belonged to Will all his life without knowing and that was why there couldn’t be anyone else, there would never be anyone else if Will didn’t choose him but he did, he did.

It didn’t last long, and he thought the pleasure would kill him: it burnt through him like lightning, like pain, and even after it ebbed he couldn’t breathe.

 

*

 

“Hannibal,” Will said, and kissed him. Soft: just the sweetness of his mouth lingering against Hannibal’s. Their breaths mingling. He’d turned a little, in the confines of Hannibal’s arms, so that they were face to face. “Are you all right?”

There was a wetness on Hannibal’s face. His vision swam. He blinked, but the view did not clear. “I don’t know,” he said. “Stay with me.”

_This is your home, now. Here, where you have me. Don’t leave._

“I’m not going anywhere,” said Will.

 

**Author's Note:**

> 1) [Notes on George Bataille and historical French cuisine.](http://genufa.tumblr.com/post/133602652405/whats-part-maudite-mean-i-tried-googling-and)
> 
> 2) Richard Armitage played the Sheriff of Nottingham for years and now he will be eaten like the red deer (wait what). Pappardelle alla lepre is basically a civet too: the one time I made it, the recipe called for it to be thickened with chocolate. Like... a chocolate cake's worth of chocolate.
> 
> 3) If I had to sail across the Atlantic, I would definitely stock up on vacuum-sealed duck confit. That stuff stays good for half a year, tastes better than any protein out of a can, and leaves behind duck fat for eggs and potatoes. That is how Hannibal had the idea to wrap himself in plastic for murder, you know: he's a French chef and they have a mania for sous vide.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10231175) by [RsCreighton](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RsCreighton/pseuds/RsCreighton)




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